One of the problems Marvin Pincus discovered about running the Fly Tying Love Center here in the valley is that there appeared to be more fly tying than love counseling going on.

This particular morning he was whipping up a nice fluffy Adams dry on a number 12 and wishing everyone’s love problems were as easy to solve as tying one of these. He realized he’s a pioneer in the field of combining fly tying and romance solutions, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t quietly hope for his neighbors to have more love problems. His advice had worked well with Dewey (a lead-wire-wrapped wooly bugger leading to the suggestion he showers before he asks a girl out on a date), and with Randy Jones (a pheasant-tail nymph and a Parmachene Belle sending him on his way to girlfriend happiness with Katie Burchell). But there were others out there. There had to be others.

  Other advice counselors, the ones who just sat there taking notes, managed to find any number of unhappy potential love victims, but the Fly Tying Love Center was noticeably short of them at the moment.

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Down at the sale barn Saturday, the think tank had coagulated there with coffees to go to celebrate life. Doc and Dud had their dogs with them, while Bert and Dewey and Steve went stag.

  Dud tried to start a conversation, but the loudspeaker soon drove them outside, where they arrayed themselves on dropped tailgates and waited to hear what Dud had in mind.

  “I thought about it a lot,” Dud said, “and I wondered what the favorite part of my job was, and wondered if you fellas ever gave that any thought, too.”

  They nodded. Yes, by mutual consent a worthy subject.

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  “With me,” Dud continued, “it wasn’t so much my job as it was my hobby. You know, writing that book. I’m claiming it as the best part of my job, anyway.”

  The assembled were still waiting to read “Murder in the Soggy Bottoms,” as it had yet to see print, and was really a work in progress.

  Then Bert picked up the conversation thread. “Of course I’m retired now,” he said, “but when I was running the pawn shop, my favorite part of the job happened when a customer found something in there he really needed and ended up paying much less for it than he thought he’d have to.”

  Doc laughed “And you made more on it than you thought you would, too,” 

Bert grinned and nodded.

  “Yep. That was good too. And you, Dewey?”

  Our accident-prone pharaoh of fertilizer got a serious look on his face. He finally said, “The best part of the fertilizer business is seeing the difference it makes in the flower gardens around town. Now maybe it’s just my imagination, but I kinda like to take a little credit for a prettier town.”

  “You deserve it, Dewey,” Doc said kindly. “Well now … with me it’s a little different. I have doctoring skills, of course, and it’s good when I can help someone, but these days the most satisfying part of my job is to check someone out thoroughly and find there’s absolutely nothing wrong with them. Now that’s special.”

  They all looked over at the tall cowboy, Steve.

  “Digging postholes,” he said.

  “What?” they said.

  “You know,” he said, “the favorite part of my job.”

  “Digging postholes?”

  “Sure,” he said, grinning. 

  “It’s the only part of my job where I start at the top end work down.”

Brought to you by A Cowboy’s Bucket List. Available online and from Rio Grande Press.

  Delbert McLain smiled at the sign in Marvin Pincus’s yard as he walked briskly up to the front door and knocked. Marvin had seen him coming and opened it with a big smile and a handshake.

  “Delbert! I’ve got to tell you I’ve really been looking forward to seeing what kind of flies we can tie up to improve your love life. You want some coffee?”

  “Love life?” Del said. “Oh not today, Marvin, not today. I’m here on chamber business. Yessir.”

  Delbert McLain is our Chamber of Commerce. We have all designated him … well … okay, I guess Del kinda designated himself to let the world know we adore progress, our community is the healthiest, safest and most prosperous place to raise children or crops or make widgets. 

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   It’s natural to mumble nasty things about the cold weather. We all do it from time to time. But even the cold has its merits.

  One big plus is that it makes fireplaces a reasonable addition to our lives. In cold weather, we can build a fire in our home with a clear conscience. This is something that doesn’t translate well to summer heat, but when it’s cold, here comes the fire.
  Strange, isn’t it, our love affair with a fireplace? Makes absolutely no sense. Today, we can make houses so impervious to cold that every time we light a candle, the temperature goes up ten degrees. So what do we do? We cut a hole in this sealed anti-cold unit so we can sit and look at the flames, the way our ancestors have done since they learned to walk upright and invented kindling.

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     When the new college opened in the next town – a somewhat larger town than ours – our folks began wondering if making the 30-minute drive to class would be worth it.

  Dud was the first to figure out that it was.

  “Boys,” he said, sitting at the Mule Barn philosophy counter and flipping his cup upright with one poetic motion, “I’m signed up over at J.H.T.. I’m going to get me an education.”

  “That’s great, Dud,” said his mentor and straight man, Doc. “What are you taking?”

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 When Steve and Dud got up to go get a paper, it left just Doc and Bert sitting at the philosophy counter of the Mule Barn truck stop. Bert turned his head and smirked a little, being careful not to let Doc see him. Doc also didn’t see Dud outside, punching in a number on his cell phone while Steve stood by as a cheerleader.

  “Doc,” said Loretta, from the cash register, “phone call for you, Hon.”

  “Here? Okay…”  Doc walked over and picked up the phone.

  “This here Doc?” said the caller. “The Doc what lost his squirrel?”

  “Uh …” Doc looked around for help. There was none. “Yes. Yes it is.”

  “Found your dang squirrel here, Doc. That reward thing still good?”

  “Well … yes.”

  “Five dollars and a quarter, right? Now is that cash or check? I don’t take no checks.”

  Doc is looking all around and looks wilderness-type lost. “Cash I guess.”

  “Only thing is, Doc. Need to be sure this is your squirrel, right? So can you describe him for me?”

  “He’s … gray.”

  “All gray squirrels are gray, now, ain’t that right? How about any distinguishing marks? Tattoos?”

  “No tattoos.”

  “So far so good. Now you said in the ad his name is Chipper. Well, I called him Chipper and the son of a gun bit me.”

  “He did?”

  “What I mean to ask here, Doc, is did you and your squirrel get along? No squirrel problems? He looks like he needs a square meal to me. You feed him good?”

   “What?”

   “You know … like Squirrel Chow free choice, or did you put him on a nut ration? I mean, he ate like there was no tomorrow. Dang near ate up the whole five dollars and a quarter reward money in squirrel food.”

  Steve and Dud walked back into the café, then, with the cell phone still at Dud’s ear, and the laughing began. 

  “You were right all along, Doc,” said Bert. “In winter, everyone can use a good hoax.”

   Doc paid for the coffee.                                

—————-

Brought to you by Ol’ Max Evans, the First Thousand Years by Slim Randles. From the University of New Mexico Press.

It might have been the winter doldrums that did it. You can never be sure of these things. It’s just that … well, Doc is one of those guys who can’t stand to see anyone bored. He claims it’s bad for their inner chemistry, and since he has more initials after his name than anyone else in town, we tend to listen to him.
When it happened, we in the inner circle of the World Dilemma Think Tank down at the Mule Barn truck stop thought back on what Doc had said a year ago when the temperature dropped, along with everyone’s spirits.
“In weather like this,” Doc pronounced, stirring sugar into his cup, “a real American would come up with a great hoax.”
Those of us sitting at the philosophy counter that morning just nodded, even though we didn’t have a clue. No one wanted to admit it, you see.
When the Valley Weekly Miracle hit the street yesterday, we bought one to see how much the editor dared to print, as always, but there in the classifieds was this:
“LOST – One gray squirrel, fluffy tail, two years old. Answers to “Chipper.” $5.25 reward. Call Doc.”
The paper was passed down the counter and we all looked at Doc after we read it. He was smirking as only Doc can smirk.

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 You folks get them flu shots ever’ fall? I try not to, but Doc has this y’r nurse that’s not only stouter’n a streetsweeper, but fleet of foot as well. This y’r’s Windy, a-course. So, yeah, I prit-nearly allus get one a-them shots each fall. 

   But I been workin’ on a way to either speed me up or slow her down. Ever seen on them summer Olympicals the relay race? You know, when one guy’s runnin’ and he sticks out a stick and the next guy takes it for a while? Thass what that there nurse looks like in hot pursuit ‘cept it’s a hypothermic needle and not a stick in her hand. Now you know ol’ Doc makes fun a-me ever’ dang time she catches up. A-course, she could stand to run off a few calories here and there, mostly there. Truth be told, wouldn’t hurt me none, neither.

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  As I lay there in my super-duper borrowed-from-the-Army mummy bag, I had time to think about things. Mostly, I pondered how stupid I’d been to take a dog team out across the North Slope of Alaska in November. 

  As I can now contemplate, 50 years later, it was a dumb thing to do, making the first crossing north to south from Prudhoe Bay’s frozen oil fields to the Brooks Range. Brooks Range roughly translates to “that frozen rockpile there to the south.”

   But even then, in the deadly silence of the arctic, I knew my doing this was … well, me. I guessed at the time it would cost me my life, but I don’t know if I could’ve done otherwise. I HAD to do it. Ever since that first dogsled trip nearly a year earlier, I knew I was entangled in driving a dog team for good purposes. And good stories.

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